


you're on my heart (just like a tattoo)

by Flowerparrish



Series: SamBucky Bingo [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Disabled Bucky Barnes, M/M, Tattoo Kink, Tattoos, veteran bucky barnes, veteran sam wilson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-10-30 05:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20809682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flowerparrish/pseuds/Flowerparrish
Summary: Bucky stares at his reflection in the mirror, standing sideways and twisted around so he can see his back, and… fuck.This is all Steve’s fault.





	you're on my heart (just like a tattoo)

**Author's Note:**

> SamBucky Bingo Square: G2 - tattoo kink
> 
> is the title lyric from a Jordin Sparks song? you betcha. #noshame

Bucky stares at his reflection in the mirror, standing sideways and twisted around so he can see his back, and… _fuck. _

This is all Steve’s fault.

This is, admittedly, not as bad as the many fights Steve has gotten him in when they’ve gone out drinking together—less frequent but somehow more intense now that they live on different coasts and rarely see each other. But it’s also not _ideal. _

“Steve!” he shouts, wincing a little at the loudness of his own voice as the sound exacerbates his hangover.

An answering groan from the living room is all the reply he gets.

Bucky sighs and makes his way out of the bathroom and into his small living room, just barely big enough for the two-person couch, small table, and TV he’s crammed into it. Steve’s skinny form is sprawled out, legs just barely hanging over one of the armrests, head _under _his pillow.

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice low but annoyance clear in his tone. “Want to tell me why I woke up with some of your art tattooed on my body?”

Steve’s hand curls around the pillow and he lifts it up into the air, just high enough that he can peer blearily up at Bucky. “Huh?”

Bucky turns his back on Steve.

“Huh,” Steve says again, more considering this time.

Bucky turns back to face him and glowers.

“It’s awesome,” Steve mumbles, dropping the pillow back over his face. He says more words, but they’re too muffled to make out.

Bucky sighs. It _is _awesome. But… something about the fact that he can’t remember choosing to get it doesn’t sit right with him.

He goes back to the bathroom and stares at the tattoo some more.

It’s the silhouette of a wolf drawn in a geometric design. Somehow, it looks as if the wolf’s in motion, mid-stride crossing the space between Bucky’s shoulders.

The longer he stares at it, the more he settles into his own skin again.

He _likes _it. Oh, thank fuck, he does, he _likes _it.

And, okay, if he had to wake up to anyone’s art permanently inked onto his body, he’s glad it’s Steve’s design.

He contemplates the shower, knowing he smells of stale beer and that the tattoo definitely needs to be washed, and _that’s _when he realizes his next problem. He can’t reach it himself.

“Steve,” Bucky calls, resigned. He strips down as he does it. “C’mere, I need your help.” He hears Steve groan in the other room, and then a tell-tale _thud _that marks Steve rolling off of the couch and onto the floor. “That’s it, buddy!” Bucky encourages just to be an asshole. 

Steve’s answering “fuck you” makes Bucky laugh as he climbs into the shower.

**

For the rest of Steve’s visit—a day and a half—it’s fine.

It’s not until Steve leaves that Bucky allows himself to realize that he doesn’t know what to do now, and panic.

His friends—Clint, Natasha, Thor—who all work with him live far enough away that he would feel guilty asking them to come over every day for the next few weeks to help him out. He thinks any of them would do it, yeah, but he doesn’t want to ask.

He’s never been good at asking for help. Well, not since he came back from Afghanistan with massive PTSD and down an arm.

He doesn’t really have _other _friends, though, and he doesn’t know his neighbors. There’s an old lady—Mrs. Jameson—across the hall, and a group of college students a few doors down. There’s a couple other people he passes in the halls.

And then there’s _Sam. _

Sam is, frankly, the most gorgeous man Bucky’s ever laid eyes on. He’s handsome, but he’s also kind, always offering to carry Mrs. Jameson’s groceries up the stairs or to help the college kids change a lightbulb that’s gone out.

Sam’s nice and helpful. He’d probably say yes.

Now Bucky just has to swallow his pride and embarrassment (and his crush), and _ask him. _

Bucky puts it off until it’s almost eight in the evening, after which point he’d be an asshole to ask.

With a sigh, he goes out into the hall, leaving his own door cracked open, and crosses two doors down.

He takes a deep breath, and then he knocks.

It takes long enough that he’s kind of convinced himself that Sam won’t answer, isn’t home—long enough for his panic to switch from discomfort to _oh shit what will I do now?—_but just before he can get really worked up, the door swings open.

“Oh, hey,” Sam greets easily. “James, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky agrees after a slightly too-long pause. In his defense, he’s a bit distracted by the fact that Sam’s wearing a t-shirt, and Bucky can see tattoos curling down both of his arms. He’s only ever seen Sam in crisply ironed button up shirts or, in the winter, nice sweaters.

“Did you need something?” Sam prompts, eyes warm but definitely also amused.

_Shit. _“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says. “I just, uh, have a favor to ask? But it’s… kinda weird.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “I’m definitely intrigued.”

Bucky can feel the blush on his face; he can only hope that it’s not, like, _super _noticeable. He doubts he’s that lucky, though. “I got a tattoo—a really cool one—on my back, but I can’t, uh, reach it? To wash it.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You want help washing your tattoo?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits. “Like I said, super weird, I know, I just… didn’t really know who to ask? My friend was with me when I got it, and he helped, but he was only visiting, and I… kinda didn’t plan ahead.”

Bucky contemplates just braining himself on the doorframe. That’s gotta be less painful than _this, _this whole moment, the babbling, Sam’s stupid face, all of it.

Sam shrugs. “Yeah, okay,” he agrees. “Now?”

“Wait, really?”

Sam laughs. “Yeah, really.”

“Uh, then, yeah, now would be great,” Bucky agrees, words tripping over themselves.

Sam grabs his keys and locks his own door before following Bucky to his.

Bucky casts a critical eye over his apartment—blanket still thrown over the couch from Steve’s visit, sink full of dishes, bookshelves overflowing into piles on any available surface—and tries to hold in a wince. Who cares what Sam thinks, anyway?

(He does, that’s who. But, whatever—his traitorous brain can shut the hell up.)

“I’m gonna, uh, put on swim trunks,” Bucky says. “I’ll be right back.”

He ducks into his room and digs through his drawers. He’s gotta have swim trunks, right? Somewhere?

He finally finds them—in the same drawer as his pajamas, what the fuck?—and pulls them on, before going back out to Sam.

Sam, in the meantime, has wandered over to one of the bookshelves. He’s reading the titles and doesn’t seem to notice Bucky’s approach.

“Uh, hey,” Bucky says softly, in an attempt not to startle the other man.

Sam turns away from the books and grins at Bucky. “Hey. You’ve got quite a collection.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “It’s a problem.”

“Nah, no such thing as too many books.”

They stand there for a minute, grinning at each other, before Bucky realizes that maybe he’s being _weird _and says, “Uh, yeah, so the bathroom is through here.”

Sam follows Bucky into the bathroom, and Bucky’s not sure if it’s wishful thinking when he thinks he can feel Sam’s gaze heavy on him.

In the bathroom, Bucky shows Sam the unscented soap he keeps around more for Steve—because his allergies are many, varied, and ever-increasing—than because he anticipates waking up with unplanned tattoos that he doesn’t remember getting. But, well, it works for both.

Bucky turns on the shower water, back to the spray, and can’t help but watch Sam.

His eyes track over the tattoos on Sam’s arms, and he’s so engaged in following the mandala patterns down one that he almost jumps when Sam’s fingers brush against the skin in between his shoulders.

“Shit, sorry, does that hurt?” Sam asks, yanking his hand away.

“No, it’s fine,” Bucky hastens to assure him.

Sam studies him for a moment, but must believe him, because he shrugs and says, “Okay,” before going back to it.

All in all, it takes less than a minute. Sam washes his hands off in the sink and Bucky allows the water to rinse the excess soap off of his skin. He climbs out of the shower and dries off carefully with his old and threadbare towel, and then they both just stand there, awkwardly.

“I like your tattoos,” Bucky blurts after a moment.

“I like yours.”

“My friend designed it,” Bucky says.

“Cool.”

For a few moments, Bucky tries to think of something to say. Before he can come up with anything, though, Sam just says, “Well, I should probably get out of your hair.”

“I mean, you could,” Bucky agrees. He takes a breath to fortify himself, and then says, “Or you could… stay? I dunno if you’ve eaten, but I could order pizza?”

Sam’s eyes brighten. “Yeah, okay.” His smile is slow and warm, and Bucky feels like he’s being lit up from the inside in response to it.

“Great.”

**

It’s not effortless. Bucky’s not great at human interaction these days—he’s so much better than he was a couple years back, but he doesn’t always know the right thing to say the way he used to.

But, awkwardness aside, Bucky breaks out his rusty flirting skills.

He’s even pretty sure Sam flirts back.

They drink through the few cans of beer that have been living in Bucky’s fridge for months and demolish a large pizza between them, put on a football game but don’t bother paying any attention to it.

By the time Bucky thinks to check the time, it’s gone eleven. “Oh, shit,” he says. “I have work tomorrow.”

Sam winces. “Me too.” He stands and stretches, his shirt riding up just enough that Bucky can see a sliver of skin between the hem and his pants, and Bucky tries not to swallow his tongue.

He sees Sam to the door—the ten whole steps it takes to get there—and says, “Really, thank you.”

“No problem,” Sam says. “Thanks for the pizza. And—I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night again? Same time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, smile a little sheepish. “Thanks.”

Sam just gives him that warm smile in the return before heading back to own apartment.

Bucky shuts the door and leans his head against it.

He’s _so _fucked.

**

They fall into a routine; Sam will stop by every evening, Bucky will shimmy into his still damp swim trunks, and the whole shower ordeal lasts barely enough time to justify the effort.

Sam stays and hangs out more often than not; sometimes, Bucky tries his best to cook dinner one-armed, but more often, they order out and take turns paying.

Bucky learns that Sam has a brother and a sister, that his mother still lives in Harlem, that he works at the VA and is a vet himself.

Bucky shares a little, too—how he doesn’t have much contact with his parents, sees his sister for every important holiday, and that Steve is the brother he never had. He even mentions, obliquely, the circumstances that led to him getting a little bit blown up.

Bucky’s crush on Sam, unfortunately, _grows _with every new thing he learns about the man. The man likes _pineapple _on his pizza, for Christ’s sake, and Bucky’s _still _into him.

He’s got it bad.

One night, about three weeks in to the arrangement, Sam hesitates at Bucky’s door. It’s almost eleven again—Bucky’s never been so happy to sacrifice sleep in his life—but he pauses anyway, facing Bucky but not quite looking him in the eye.

When he does finally meet Bucky’s gaze, his expression reads determined. “So, tell me if I’m reading this wrong, but… I don’t think I am.” Bucky has just long enough to feel the first cold jolt of anxiety before Sam continues, “Can I kiss you?”

Bucky blinks. Stares. “You want to kiss me?” He can’t quite comprehend it; he knows what the words mean, but the reality of the situation evades him.

“Yeah,” Sam says, like it’s simple. Like it’s _easy. _“Do you want me to?”

“Of course,” Bucky says.

Sam’s smile is like the sunrise. “Good.”

He reaches up to cradle the side of Bucky’s face, palm warm against Bucky’s skin, and then he leans in.

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut at the first brush of Sam’s lips against his, and he feels himself melt.

He hasn’t been kissed like this in, fuck, years.

He isn’t sure he’s ever been kissed quite like this, slow and gentle and yet deep, insistent.

When Sam pulls back, Bucky blinks his eyes open, feeling a little dazed.

“See you tomorrow,” Sam says, but he doesn’t pull away immediately. He strokes his thumb across Bucky’s cheekbone for a moment, and Bucky wants to whine at the loss of warmth when he eventually does pull his hand back.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. His voice is a little breathless. “Tomorrow.”

**

Bucky takes advantage of his new license to _touch _by getting his hand on Sam’s tattoos. He traces over the patterns, in awe of the goosebumps that raise on Sam’s skin in the wake of his fingertips.

“If I’d known you had a thing for tattoos, I would have worn a t-shirt around you way sooner,” Sam says, smile wide and open.

“Like you don’t have a thing for tattoos, too,” Bucky comments.

“Maybe,” Sam agrees.

“Maybe I’ll get more,” Bucky says, watching as Sam’s eyes darken at the prospect. “But only if you promise to help me with those, too.”

Sam pretends to think it over. “I guess I could be persuaded.”

Bucky smiles, soft and happy, and leans up to kiss Sam, fingers still skating across the dark ink on Sam’s skin.

**

When Bucky looks in the mirror, later, the sound of Sam’s soft snores drifting across the hall from his bedroom, and considers his tattoo, he thinks, _yeah. I’m glad I ended up with this. _


End file.
